Staying Human
by PrettyArbitrary
Summary: It's a coping mechanism, a helping hand in the dark, and a way of staying human.  Face/Hannibal slash, but not romance.


**Staying Human**

This one goes out to darth_stitch, whose enthusiasm in swapping bunnies with me for the past two weeks led to this, my first official slash fic.

Do I really need to explain how the A-Team doesn't belong to me?

* * *

The Baja beach house Face had 'commandeered' for the team was more than nice; it was necessary. Their latest case had featured a kidnapped kid and a couple of misses that'd come closer than any of them wanted to admit, and they badly needed a safe place to unwind. So they didn't exactly have _permission_, but Hannibal always made sure they took out the trash before they left. The home owners were off partying in New Zealand; they'd barely even notice.

They were all still tweaking on adrenaline when Murdock fired up the grills on the back verandah, whooping as the flames shot up over his head. B.A. shook his head as he hauled out an ice chest full of beer. "Man, these people don't got no food and it don't look like they stay here more'n a month out of the year, but they got a storage cooler full of Negra Modelo."

Face's eyes kindled. "I _love _Negra Modelo."

"Well, that's good, 'cause that's all you're getting." The big man seized three dripping bottles in one hand, lobbing two at his friends and popping the third open with his thumb.

Gripping his beer in his teeth to free up his hands, Face stripped off his shirt and settled back into a lawn chair, prepared to get significantly less sober. "Let the party commence!" He toasted Murdock, who was juggling cutlery and food items in a splendid impression of a Benihana chef.

"Crazy fool," B.A. muttered, eyeing him warily. "Gonna put somebody's eye out."

They all had their own ways of dealing with the stress of a mission, which they'd finely honed through years of practice. If some of those methods were a bit weird, well, who sweated normality when you'd just come a finger's width away from being grilled like Murdock's barbeque? That stunt had put the boss on a bender he was going to have a hard time coming down from.

Taking a pull off his (really, _very good_) beer, Face's eyes tracked down the short path to the beach where their fearless leader was walking barefoot through the breakers. _Not _one of Hannibal's coping mechanisms, but he had a thing about the ocean. Give the guy some surf and he'd kick off his shoes and have his feet in the water before you knew it. A holdover from his childhood, Face assumed. He'd never asked, but nostalgia often caught people that way. Still, he found the sight surreal, their larger-than-life colonel looking almost…normal. It was the only place Face had ever seen him belong outside a military operation.

Murdock had, oddly, once complained to Face that he didn't like it.

The four of them had always known how to have a good time together. After communing with the voice of the sea or whatever the Old Man did down there, he rejoined them on the patio, where Murdock annihilated some steaks on their behalf. He'd picked up marshmallows too, which sounded like a great idea till he started using them for bombing runs and Hannibal had to confiscate them. B.A. got sloshed and giggly, Face showed them the latest dance moves going around the clubs to the accompaniment of Murdock's beat-boxing (which made B.A. giggle so hard that Hannibal and Murdock finally carted him off to bed), and Hannibal leaned back, stretched out those long legs of his, and laughed at them all. But the crazy light didn't go out of his eyes.

Long after the fires had died (or, in one memorable case, had been extinguished) and only a purple smudge of light's memory clung to the horizon, the haunted darkness in Murdock's eyes finally succumbed to the lighter shadow of exhaustion. "Think I'm good now," he declared, clapping Face on the shoulder on his way back inside. Face smiled, their eyes met, and then they both stole a glance at their CO, who was watching the waves from the edge of the verandah with a cigar in his teeth. Murdock smiled ruefully and shrugged. _You know how he is._ Face waved him off inside. _I've got this one._

Murdock went. Face sat there drinking and watching smoke curl around Hannibal like living moonlight.

The man was profoundly unfeminine, but he had a springy, supple grace like a willow switch. Some men bulked up, like Bosco; some men got ripped, like Face. Hannibal and Murdock both corded. Nothing they'd ever gone through had put much meat on those lean, utilitarian frames of theirs. Their muscles just got more compact and wiry.

In silhouette that grace became his most evident feature, and Face found himself following the easy sway of his hips and shoulders, the smooth bow of his neck as he dipped his head toward his lighter. Post-mission reaction could catch him that way sometimes, right in the libido. Right now, he found, he wanted to feel that whipcord body flex beneath his hands.

And if he was that wound up, he could bet his infamous adrenaline junkie of a commanding officer was riding the storm. Sometimes you didn't play the jazz, B.A. would say; sometimes the jazz played you. And sometimes it carried him too far, and Hannibal needed a hand up out of the crash.

Face sat forward and stretched for the cooler. "Hey." When Hannibal glanced over his shoulder, Face waggled the beer in warning, then tossed it at him and sank back into his lounge chair in a single smooth motion, legs splayed to straddle the seat. He flashed a challenging grin that gleamed even in the half light.

Hannibal eyed him with tolerant amusement. It really was true that his lieutenant would flirt with anything that moved. But then, Face reflected, that was because he could find something attractive about almost everybody. Nice ass, nice abs, nice eyes. Even, yes, a good personality.

Face closed his eyes and fell into a comfortable slouch. Hannibal sauntered over a moment later to lower himself onto the bench next to him.

"You all right, kid?" he asked, not missing the subtle tension in his subordinate's bare shoulders.

"Mmyup." Face tossed him another teasing smirk without bothering to open his eyes. He could feel Hannibal analyzing him. Hannibal could rock the analysis so hard it almost made a sound.

The older man went still for a moment, then heaved a sigh. Wait, no, that was the beer being opened. Face opened his eyes to see the colonel put the bottle to his lips and toss his head back, downing almost half the contents in one go. His mouth went dry as he watched the bared throat work.

Then Hannibal set the container down delicately and his head swiveled back toward his XO. Who was watching with a slightly slack-jawed expression that clearly communicated his interest in throwing himself out of his chair and grabbing him.

Feeling slightly sheepish in the face of Hannibal's sardonic eyebrow twitch, Face reined himself in. He'd made his intent clear when he'd pitched the beer over. The boss had to come to him. He wasn't as comfortable with this as Face was, burdened with the dynamics of authority and the implications to his own self-restraint. Face could've lunged up and kissed him and maybe broken that self-control, but he wouldn't do that to Hannibal, wouldn't unbalance yet another delicate equilibrium in an existence that had already lost so many.

Besides, if he tried it there was always a chance Hannibal would break his handsome nose.

Attention riveted, he saw the moment when the colonel made up his mind. Instantly he lunged for him, fist closing in the collar of Hannibal's t-shirt to yank them together. Hannibal would've given him the same treatment, only the younger man wasn't wearing anything convenient for grabbing. His fingers threaded up into Face's curls, though, as their mouths came together.

Hannibal tasted like cigar ash, good beer, and the salt-sweet tang of a human mouth. Face licked at him, savoring it. So different from a woman, but tonight he wasn't interested in the softer side of life. He wanted hard, somebody who knew what it was to fight for survival and spend every moment waiting for the bullet you never saw coming.

And Hannibal, he was after somebody to reach him, to help him out of the fire-and-ice world the jazz flung him into. Face could feel, in the strain of the body under his hands, that he still wasn't entirely happy about this decision—he was never completely at peace with it—but for Hannibal it wasn't a matter of _want_. Sometimes he found other ways to wind down when he'd danced too hard with the devil, but here, tonight, the pickings were slim. And Face had done this for him before. It was a good deal, to drive each other back to sanity and enjoy the process of getting there.

Hannibal's muscles telegraphed his desire to push Face down onto the lounge and follow after, but it was obvious the thing would pancake under their combined weight. Instead, not relinquishing Hannibal's tongue, Face got up to straddle his lap on the bench, a knee to either side of his hips. He enjoyed the way the colonel's body curved and swayed backward to accommodate him. Hannibal's hands came up to wrap like steel bands around his hips; Face used his advantage in elevation to press down deeper into Hannibal's mouth, forcing his head back and baring that throat again in the way he liked so much. What was it about that anyway, he wondered, fingers playing along it on their way to the collar of his shirt. Something naked…

Hannibal growled, the sound vibrating in Face's chest in a warning that he was getting impatient. They pulled apart so Face could grab the hem of his t-shirt and strip it off over his head, Hannibal lifting his arms just long enough to get clear before wrapping them around his man again. The move was partly practical; Face didn't have great balance like this.

"We should…go inside," Hannibal said thickly.

"Yeah," Face agreed. "I'm gonna either fall on my ass or end up with splinters."

He slid off, and then they separated to inspect the verandah, putting things to bed and scooping up odds and ends they didn't want to leave outside overnight. Propping the door open with his hip, Hannibal motioned Face through with a jerk of his head, side-stepping in after as the door closed on him.

Face let his shoes and shirt slip out of his arms to the floor next to his bedroom door, but his guns got more care. Having stowed his own equipment more quickly, Hannibal was waiting in the hall when Face came back out. By unspoken agreement—might as well make use of the biggest bed in the place—they headed for the big master bedroom at the end of the house.

Face stopped in the middle of the room and turned back to the other man just in time to get grabbed by the arm and judo-flipped onto the mattress.

"What the—" Face snorted with suppressed laughter. "What was that, your new seduction technique?"

"Like it?" Hannibal grinned. "It's called Neo-Paleo. All the rage in France."

Face cackled, trying to keep it down for B.A. and Murdock. Then they both fell silent in favor of dealing with clothes.

It was as much a sparring match as anything, hands and legs and lips going from skimming each other's bodies to leveraging force and back with breathtaking swiftness. They rolled back and forth, vying for advantage, holding back only enough to keep from jarring the heavy walnut bed into making noise. Fortunately it could take a lot of punishment. Much like them. They didn't restrain themselves with each other's wounds, licking at scrapes and leaving new bruises atop existing ones, gagging each other as necessary.

Face had Hannibal on his knees, with his hands held captive in a vice grip behind his back and Face's hand clamped across his mouth to pull his head back, exposing that gorgeous neck for his tongue. Hannibal returned the favor with Face on his back, wrists pinned against the mattress above his head and teeth buried in the meat of Hannibal's shoulder.

Afterwards, lust and turmoil both sated, they lay there for a while, enjoying the well-earned silence. Face reached over to run his fingertips over the nape of Hannibal's neck, calluses catching on the delicate skin. Hannibal's eyes slid open to regard him drowsily.

"You're due for a haircut," Face murmured. "Your hair's getting long."

"Yours always is," Hannibal rumbled into his pillow with fond annoyance. "What is it with you and my neck?"

Face examined him. He _had _done a bit of a number on it. Hannibal might need to cover some of that up with makeup for a few days to keep the guys from conceiving awkward questions.

"I dunno," he shrugged. "It's just…" He clammed up on the absurdity of the words about to emerge from his mouth.

"Hmm?" Hannibal roused a bit, lifting his head. Which only added weight to what Face was thinking.

"…You kind of remind me of a wolf sometimes, you know?" he admitted awkwardly, earning a blank look from Hannibal. Face heaved an internal sigh and committed himself to sounding like an idiot. "Well, it's just that…you're not a man who opens up very much, Hannibal. And sometimes a bit of vulnerability is a reminder that you're human."

Hannibal's eyes flickered. Vulnerability wasn't something any of them could afford much of, but they wouldn't last long without it either. When a man locked himself in with his demons, only death or the demon awaited.

"And it's hot," Face mumbled more enthusiastically into his crossed arms. "Oh my god, it is so hot. Seriously, on you it's like a strip-tease-"

Hannibal shoved him out of bed.


End file.
